


Cracked

by thewanderingderp



Category: Final Fantasy V
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:16:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewanderingderp/pseuds/thewanderingderp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's easier to put up a wall when you're hurt-- that way, no one would worry or ask questions. But what nobody tells you is that the wall may eventually crumble under the flood...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracked

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from my Bartz roleplay account! A story I wrote a while ago, but I'm still very proud of it. If you are sensitive to stories about deceased relatives, then this may hit a little hard.

He had always set aside that numbness for events such as these. Having been an emotional wreck not two days before, it was now time to push all of his feelings aside and numb the wounds that would eventually become scars. Bartz stood, seventeen and clothed in rich black garments, eyes dark from the strong brick wall that he had set up to block the flood from flowing forth.

Surrounded by people he had known his entire life, the teen still felt completely alone. The pastor spoke words that reached the boy in mumbles and hums, the brunet unable to absorb the speech. He occasionally recognized his father’s name, as well as his mother’s, and when his own name was spoken several hands reached to rub at his back and squeeze his shoulders. The contact was strange and foreign, causing the youth’s skin to grow chill and then going into an uncomfortable numb.

Bartz did not look anywhere but the graves before him, the flowers that had been planted there wilted and covered in frost. The occasional white wisps of breath would obscure his view of the tombstone, as though the ghosts of his mother and father were reaching out past their dirt prisons. The pastor grew quiet, a thick silence filling the dead and frigid air. Only the sound of his own breathing pierced the heavy atmosphere.

The flock of people began to move, the orphan staying still and staring on at the tombstone. The boy did not turn to see who gripped his arm until he heard his name, and those eyes that were as dead as his parents turned to greet an old sage. A man that had taken care of the youth when Dorgann could not.

“Bartz, let us go get some food,” the kind old man said softly, his wrinkled lips pulling themselves into a toothless grin, “you can come stay with my wife and I if you’d like.”

There was worry in the man’s eyes, causing Bartz’s chest to tighten- he could never worry another. It was something he could not bring himself to do. Although his eyes were black and he could not bring back the bright blue they once held, the teen could still force himself to smile. It was weak, but it was the best he could do.

“I’m not hungry, but thank you,” there was gratitude in his voice, thankful for the offer, “and I think I can stay alone tonight, if that’s okay?” The sound of his own voice scared him- what came out was the voice of a small, scared child, not the bright teenager he normally was.

“Come with us anyway,” was the final offer, and with a huff of defeat the brunet allowed himself to be pulled into town. Lix was dark that day, everyone wearing black and every color muted into a lifeless gray. The sky was overcast, as though showing its own sad lament for the passing of a hero- as though saying “I’m sorry for your loss” to Bartz himself. The citizens gathered in the usual hall, and still numb, the orphan stood among the crowd, stiffly holding a broken smile onto his face for the rest of the evening.

 

Time eventually slowed, and the youth found himself placed over the wash-basin of his home, splashing handful after handful of ice water onto his pale features. With expression sopping wet, the boy took a moment to breathe past his panic and calm, eyes trailing up to look into the glass before him. What stared back was a completely different person, skin a white pallor with eyes puffy and red from the lack of sleep that Bartz had suffered since his father’s passing.

Those black eyes were so foreign, completely different than before, almost fiendish. The boy found himself staring at them, trying to figure them out- and he could have sworn he saw one of the iris’ crack like glass.

Turning away sharply and standing straight, the brunet directed his gaze to watch the quiet room. Only a small stream of sunlight filled the home, particles of dust dancing along the rays his only company. Looking into another direction Bartz found himself staring at a music box, lonely and discarded in the corner of Dorgann’s writing desk. Without even having conscious control of his body the teen found himself standing before it, reaching to run young and soft fingers over the dusty surface. Eyes trailed along the details before locking onto the wind-up key, numbly turning it with all of the strength he currently possessed.

Opening it set forth, not the evils of the world, but the memories of years passed. The chime of copper being plucked filled the air in a set melody the boy had memorized, those weary eyes continuing to watch the little chocobo in the middle spin in its dance. Doomed to perform whenever it was wound up- doomed to never be set free.

Lips twitched at the thought, and from the youth’s back pocket he pulled a hunting knife that his father had blessed him with. Taking the chocobo with one hand, he cut the twine that held the box and the figurine together, separating them once and for all. The music continued despite the disappearance of its dancing friend, and this seemed to light a fire that the teen had been trying to hold back.

The knife clattered on the floor, and the tiny chocobo bounced along the wooden panels when dropped. Bartz followed shortly after, unable to support his own weight any longer. Chest heaved as another panic attack set in, mouth hanging open and pulling in and out raspy breaths desperately. The black of the wall in his eyes crumbled, giving way to the ocean blue that revealed the brunet’s true form- and when the wall fell, the flood came as well.

They had left him. His music still played on but their dancing figurines were gone. No longer would Papa be there to ruffle his hair, take long walks with him through the woods, talk, tell him things were going to be okay, wrap him up in strong hugs when the boy felt like crying, go hunting together, watch the boy cook as he laid in bed sick and dying and now he was dead.

Mama was gone too, she had been for a while, but Papa talked so much of her it felt as though she were still living all these years. There were no more mentions of Mama, nor the deep bass of Papa’s voice- there was silence.

Consciousness left him as the floodgates opened, Bartz no longer aware of what was happening around him. The screams that left his throat hurt, but he found he could not stop. He was drowning in his own tears, choking on his sobs, fingers tightly pulling on the black fabric of his clothes until they ripped. He didn’t even cry when Papa died. But now, that’s all he could see: Dorgann’s voice meek with oncoming absence of life, saying his final words to the boy. The grip on Bartz’s hand grew weak, the eyes grew dilated and lifeless, and he let out a final exhale as his soul left the mortal plane.

The image was on repeat, fuzzy and jumpy like a broken film-strip. Even as the hours passed and the brunet’s voice left him from the cries he bellowed forth, the image remained. The memories of the man remained to torment him.

Eventually the torrent slowed to a trickle, the screams fading into soft little hiccups that trembled the boy’s body. Bartz laid a shaking mess along the wood grains of the floor, trying to pull himself together. Day had turned to night, and he found himself in rich darkness.

Still violently shivering the youth forced himself to stand, uneasy on his own two feet. Breathing was shallow and uneven, burning his lungs as though he were trying to force air through a straw. Slowly, careful not to lose his balance, Bartz reached clumsy fingers to light a match at the far side of the room, burning himself when trying to set the lamp wick ablaze. Shaking the flame out, the match fell from fingertips and to the floor. It seems he insisted on dropping things today.

Pulling his hands together and to his chest, ocean eyes closed in favor of concentrating. Before the light of the flame he began to pray, setting forth promises that he would force himself to make for the next three years.

“I promise-”

Voice was barely audible, burning his throat and tasting copper when he spoke. The screaming really did a number on him, but he did not care.

“I promise to travel the world.

“I promise to never worry others.

“I promise to always keep a smile on my face.”

Eyes finally opened to look upon the lamp light, which burned brightly to keep the youth company. He supposed he’d have to get used to being alone from now on. Which a shaky exhale Bartz made his way to the bed he had slept on for seventeen years, knowing full well that he would have to leave it very shortly to start his journey. He had no idea where he’d end up going- the orphan supposed that he’d just… go with the wind. Exhaustion swept over him, and his cracked voice spoke softly once more to the cold, dead air, the fire still flickering to keep the darkness at bay.

“I promise to… never forget.

“Ever. Not even for a second.”


End file.
